


Green Apples

by akaya



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Inception (2010)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaya/pseuds/akaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He looks as if he just wanted to rest his eyes,” says Sara, snapping another picture of a dead man, probably in his early thirties, laying on a bed. His folded jacket, hang on back of the chair near the bed, his hands resting along his body, sleeves down, but unbuttoned.  “So peaceful.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**PROLOGUE**

“He looks as if he just wanted to rest his eyes,” says Sara, snapping another picture of a dead man, probably in his early thirties, laying on a bed. His folded jacket, hangs on the back of the chair near the bed, his hands resting along his body, sleeves down, but unbuttoned. “So peaceful.”

“Well, he is not sleeping and doesn't it make you wonder why a man dressed in the latest Zegna suit was found dead in a cheap motel like this one?” Warrick asks, nodding his hello to Grissom, who just stepped in the room. “It's hardly Hilton.”

“He was simply dressed to kill,” interjects Grissom, looking around. “No signs of struggle, no bullet holes,” he stops and steps to the closet, opening it. Empty. _Weird_ , he thinks.

“According to the clerk, who signed him in,” sighs Brass, nodding at everyone in the room, face looking pained. “Our pal's name is Peter Schultz, from Kansas. Does he look like Peter Schultz to you?”

“No, he does not – Is there something wrong, Brass?” Asks Warrick, looking the detective over. “You don't look that great, man.”

“It's about the dead body at the Casino,” Brass huffs and pats his pockets, looking for a small notebook he usually carries on himself.

“Catherine and Nick went to check it out - ” says Grissom and scrunches his brows. “Did something happen?”

“Are there any needle punctures in his arms?” Brass asks instead of answering.

“He doesn't look like he's an user,” says Sara, scrunching her brows, but stands up and checks it anyway. She reaches for the victim's arm, when Grissom's palm on her arm stops her.

“Wait,” he says. “Were his sleeves like that when you got here?”

“Yeah, David checked his temperature, but he didn't touch the body otherwise.”

“Isn't it weird that a man, who puts so much care in clothing, including his jacket and tie,” he points out. ”Would just leave his sleeves like that?” He asks, with a small smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you suggesting someone redressed him?” Asks Warrick, eyeing the corpse.

“He's too impeccably dressed for a redressing job, but I have a hunch that someone did mess with his sleeves.

“That's nice and all and it's probably true, but can we, please, check for the needle holes?” Says Brass and Sara just rolls here eyes, making sure he doesn't see her doing that. She reaches for the corpse's arm and softly moves the thin material of the shirt up. The man's forearms are nice, she thinks. Slim, but strong, with a few veins and small scars here and there and - ah, there it is, in the crook of his elbow. A small, purplish bruise, Grissom sees it and makes a humming noise, when she probes at it gently.

“It looks like something was here, most probably a needle, but -” she says, before Grissom interrupts her.

“As a boy I had to get my blood drawn on a few occasions,” he says, licking his lips and staring at the body on the bed like a hawk. “There was this nurse, who was new at this and didn't know how to properly find a vein without bruising, just like this one.”

“Homicide then,” sighs Brass, and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Great, make that double then.”

“Body at the casino?”

“A man, around thirty years old, alone, no personal belongings other than shoes and a jacket, with a needle mark in the exact same spot and here is the best part,” he snorts, actually snorts and shakes his head. “He signed in as Roger Moore.”

“Roger Moore as in Bond?” Warrick asks, eyebrows going up to his hairline.

“Yes, but he is no Bond, I tell you. However, not only we have no idea who those men were, but we might also have a murderer on our hands.”

“Day like every day,” mutters Sara and Warrick adds, “Do you think they knew each other?”

“I don't think so,” says Brass. “But it's your job to find out.”

“Thanks for your help, Brass,” Grissom says, but there is no venom behind his words. His mind already working in full-gear. They had a murder on their hands.

+

“So Doc, case of death?” Asks Grissom, some time later, interrupting the flow of lowly playing classical music. The morgue is cold, seems colder than usual actually, but that might be only him. He's tired, his perception might be off. It happens, he thinks. But he still can't shake off the feeling that something is just not right.

“Were those young people soldiers?” Asks Al, turning to look at him, before standing up and walking to the bodies.

“I don't know anything about it, actually,” Grissom smiles, all business. ”I was actually hoping you'd tell me something about them.”

“Well, there are certain details that I find interesting, if you may so.”

“Such as?” Grissom asks, and the door to morgue open, Catherine's head peeking in, nodding at them both.

“Did you process my body yet, doc?” She asks and Grissom gives her a raised eyebrow, she just grins and walks over to them, tying her long hair into a ponytail.

“You say those bodies were found in two different places?” Al asks.

“A cheap motel room and a Casino,” answers Grissom. “You were asking about them being soldiers?”

“Yes, I'm quite sure both of them were, indeed, in an army at some point in their past,” he says and walks over to the slimmer corpse, lifting its arm, showing it off. “The muscle build suggests an army training, this is not your usual packing at the nearest gym, as well as those bruises. Bullet wounds,” he says and shows off each past injury. “Knife wounds, here we have something nasty. It's old and healed, but I'm surprised that someone can actually survive an injury like that,” he points out a nasty and irregular scar from the man's abdomen up to his left pectoral. Probably an old saw, or some other unconventional weapon.

“Past domestic abuse, war... Or perhaps a gang member. He looks to be about thirty, at most,” says Catherine, leaning over to take a better look. “What kind of life did you lead?” She mutters and sees a small tattoo, on the dead man's hipbone. “Is that a poker chip?”

“It does look like one,” Grissom says, with a thoughtful hum and the doctor smirks.

“Here is where it gets interesting,” he chuckles and reaches for a small plastic container. “His stomach contents,” he explains pushing it towards them. “Have a look.”

“Looks normal, not a big eater, was he?” says Catherine, blinking and looking back and forth between Al and the container. “Are we supposed to see something interesting here?” She asks, showing the container to Grissom, who takes it observes the sloshing fluid with a mild interest.

“Nope, not really, but there was something there and I assure you that it couldn't be, under any circumstances, considered as food.”

“Have you been hanging with Hodges lately?” Asks Grissom, with a raised eyebrow. “Care to just show us what you've found.”

“It's a die,” Al says, reaching in his pocket for a plastic bag with a red die in it. “A loaded one, it always lands on four. I checked.”

“He ate a die?” Catherine exclaims. “Was this a case of death? Did he choke on it?”

“No, frankly speaking, I do not have a case of death yet. This young mas had been perfectly healthy, until he died.”

“So he simply dropped dead? What about the needle marks?”

“I'm waiting for the tox-screen to get back, but for now I don't know anything. Except. Did you take a good look at this die?” He asks, motioning with his head to the other body. “Take a look at this.”

“What are we looking at?” Catherine asks, at the same time of Grissom's sharp intake of breath.

“It's a red die tattoo,” he murmurs, reaching to touch it. The redness of it, a clear contrast to the pale, bluish tinge of the cold skin.

“Four dots up,” Al says. “They knew each other.”

“One tattoo is hardly a proof of that,” says Grissom, even if unconsciously feels that Al is saying the truth.

“Then how about a blue poker chip in his stomach?” Al asks, basking in their shocked gazes when they look up at him.

“You gotta be kidding me,” says Catherine and Grissom just hums. They have a riddle to solve.

 **END OF PROLOGUE**


	2. Chapter 2

They are back at the motel, processing the scene again, looking for clues, for something they missed that would connect the two deaths, besides both of them being males with fake names and matching tattoos. This is Vegas, things happen.

“There is not much to see here,” Warrick sighs, getting on his knees and looking under the bed on which they found their elegantly dressed dead man. “The place is as clean as it can be for a motel.”

“Grissom mentioned that there has to be something,” answers Sara, but she sounds dubiously as she walks into a small kitchenette that you can barely turn around in, peeking into the empty cabinets, with nothing but dust and stuffy air in them. She trusts Grissom, of course she does. His hunches are usually right, and it has nothing to do with the attraction that lingers somewhere in the back of her head – her heart. He's just the type of a guy – _a man_ , she corrects herself with an initial sigh - who pulls you in, often having no idea about doing so. For someone so intelligent he surely misses quite a lot.

So she is not angry, knowing that it's something you simply can't help and that she's not the only one. Many seem to mistake Nick's infatuation with Grissom with an idol worship, when in truth it's something different, something closer to what she feels whenever she's close to the older man. Sara does not like to make assumptions, so she explains it as her female intuition and keeps quiet.

“It's hard to tell anything about the guy, other that he had good taste in suits,” Warrick mumbles and gives a small sound of triumph, spotting something on the floor. “I've got a hair!” He grins, putting it into a small plastic container and bearing it as one would a powerful sword. “It's brown and slightly curly, doesn't look like our John Doe's.”

“Go you,” Sara smiles, shaking off of her stupor. It's not the best time to daydream. ”Maybe it will tell us if there had been someone else in this room with him,” Sara sighs and and leans one hand on the slightly sticky counter. “But I wouldn't get my hopes up, this place doesn't exactly have the best maid service,” She takes a deep breath and straightens up, “If any... Can you smell that?,” she ask, bending over, her nose, almost touching the counter, sniffing intently. “The whole place smells of dust, mould and God knows what else, but this smell is different.”

“What smell?” Warrick asks, glancing at her.

“See for yourself,” she motions him over and points at the place where counter meets the sink. “It smells like coffee grounds,” she says and straightens up. They can't be sure that the dead guy drank coffee here, there was nothing in the room, not even a plastic cup in the trash that would suggest so. Yet, it's their job to check everything through and through - “Did someone drink coffee here today?” She asks, looking at him and trying to remember how many people had been here this morning.

“I'm pretty sure that no one did,” he says and points at the door. “There are no  
vending machines outside and I don't see any coffeemaker around here.”

“It would probably be immediately stolen,” says Sara, crossing her arms. “So If it was store bought there should be a leftover cup somewhere and if not,” she trails off, but Warrick is already moving past her for his kit.

“There might be some left-over coffee grounds in the sink, right. I will get to it,”

“Great, then -” she hums and scowls pointing at the green trash bins outside. “You think I can get any rookies to take a dive?”

“I don't think so,” he chuckles, laying down. “But you might try asking one of the officers nicely.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she huffs and kicks at his ankle lightly, before stepping out. Like she would do that. They would contaminate the evidence, or worse they would file a complaint and she'd have Ecklie all over her for that.

Well, she thinks, before climbing into the half-empty container. There goes nothing.

+

“Man, I swear those rooms are getting cheaper,” Nick snorts, standing in the middle of richly coloured apartment, with blue carpeting, red walls and deep green curtains and _is that a caricature of a British Queen over the bed?!_ He wonders and looks away. “Or perhaps it's just me being old-school.”

“It's Vegas. It's supposed to look tacky and cheap,” grins Catherine, putting on her latex gloves with a snap. The décor was kitschy and unappealing, there was no doubt about that, but should be the least of their concerns. “Besides, I doubt people come here to discuss internal design.”

“Drugs, gambling and sex, right,” Nick grins and shakes his head, wondering what of those three could apply to the victim and who didn't like it.

This job is a far cry from gloriously saving lives – he'd wanted to be a fireman as a kid – but there is still this heady rush, of putting the ones that strayed from the right path, away. ” I'll go check the bathroom,” he says, taking off his cap and putting it in his back-pocket. ”Check for any stray hairs or DNA samples,” Nick chuckles, winking at the blond woman. “Maybe I'll get lucky.”

Catherine smiles and turns off the light. _Well,_ she thinks reaching for her UV flashlight. _Let's see how lucky our guy was._

  
It's barely a few minutes later, when Nick comes back from the bathroom, with an unreadable expression on his face and a few samples in his palm. All properly packed and signed.

“Hey, Catherine,” he says slowly and she turns to him, a dust print brush in her hand. “The whole bathroom has been bleached recently.”

“Our victim didn't have any fresh wounds on him, for there to be blood to clean,” she says, scrunching her eyebrows.

“Yeah,” says Nick, expression tight. This case was getting weirder by each minute. “That's exactly my point. What if there is another body, instead of a suspect?.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” she sighs. “I've got some fingerprints off this lamp here. What do you have?” She asks, glancing at his hand.

“I've got some kind of gel from the mirror surface, it smells like strawberries,” Nick says, clearing his throat. Catherine rises her eyebrow at that, then smirks.

“Strawberries?”

“Yeah, I think I have a hunch what this is,” Nick says and looks sideways, not meeting her gaze.

“There wasn't any sperm stains on the bed,” she grins. “But then, beds are so boring.”

“Yeah, boring,” he bares his teeth in an uneasy smile. He is not prudish, he just doesn't want to discuss some things. Like what other things – other than showering or bathing – people do in their bathrooms. “Better get those things to the lab,” he adds quickly, hoping to change the topic.

Catherine, mercifully spares him,“Hodges will be delighted,” she says and kneels on the floor, to check under the bed, her fingers softly moving through carpeting. “There is some kind of indentation here,” she says and snaps a photo of it, moving over to let Nick see it as well.

“A regular shape,” Nick hums, kneeling next to her, to get a better look. “A weapon?”

Catherine shakes her head and sits back on her heels, “More like a suitcase.”

“Then we know what we're looking for at least - “ Nick says and snaps his fingers. “There should be surveillance cameras in the hall.”

+

“We didn't find any coffee grounds in the piping,” says Sara, walking into Grissom's office with a brown folder in her hands. “There was nothing in the trash either, other than used condoms and other disgusting stuff that I wouldn't associate with our guy.”

“It's good to know when you have nothing,” says Grissom, glancing up at her with a smirk, but she shakes her finger at him with a triumphant grin.

“Not exactly, I asked around and a few guests have seen our guy walking around with a silver suitcase, a take-out coffee cup and a cell-phone,” she says, sitting in one of the vacant chairs and opening the folder she'd brought with her. “So I checked the perimeter and there are free coffee joints nearby. I'm going with Brass to have them checked later.”

“Go for it,” Grissom says and stands up, “You might also want to check in with Nick, I heard they got tapes from the Casino, see if there is a connection.”

“Where are you going?”

“I've got a date in the morgue.”

+

  
“Here's our guy,” says Archie and plays the tape in a normal mode, for Nick to see. “Your typical Vegas tourist.”

“Yeah, he seems to fit right in with the crowd, perfectly,” chuckles Nick and takes a swing of his water bottle, with a sight. “In my eyes makes him all more suspicious.”

“That your lunch?”

“Can't really make myself eat anything,” he huffs. “It feels like a waste of time,” he says, knowing that it doesn't make that much sense, but is glad that Archie doesn't push it.

“He looks healthy, not the type of a guy you'd expect to drop dead,” hums Archie, fast forwarding a bit. “He's a rather average player too - “ he rambles on, but Nick interrupts him, something in the video catching his eye.

“Wait! Stop here,” he puts an arm on his colleague's arm, shooting out of the chair and pointing at the screen. “Rewind a few seconds, see?” He asks, with a gleam in his eye, pointing at the man's face.

“He's glancing at the camera,” Archie mutters and rubs at his chin and Nick grins, slapping his back and sitting back in his chair. “It's not that unusual, it's a common knowledge that the tables are under constant surveillance.”

“It's not that, look closer, look at his face,” Nick nods at the screen. “It's like  
he's mocking someone.”

“Who's mocking who?” Asks Sara stepping in. “You've got something to share?”

“Maybe, check this out. Archie, rewind it a few, please?” Nick says and turns to Sara, “Watch him.”

“Watch who?” She asks, leaning over the console facing the screen.

“The guy in a pink shirt. Look closely.”

  
Sara looks. She looks and she sees a guy, somewhere in-between thirty-forty years old, dressed in a pink shirt and plaid jacket, chewing on a toothpick. _Seems like a typical gambler,_ she decides. Not someone, she'd be interested in, even if he is handsome in his own, roughish, way, being still alive has probably a lot to do with it. He is not acting weird, or out of place. _Except...!_

“He's loosing,” she notices and scrunches her brows. “And he doesn't care.”

“That's one,” points out Nick. “Don't miss it,” he says with a glee as if he just discovered a cure for cancer. “Look at the way he glances up at the camera.”

She straightens up, propping her hands on her hips. “He doesn't look intimidated.”

“He looks like he's flirting,” comments Archie off-handedly, not looking at them, his eyes following the already dead, man. “Heavy gaze, lip licking, it's not exactly subtle.”

“You need to get out more, Archie,” mumbles Sara, shaking her head with a small laugh, brown curls flexing. Archie might have a point, she thinks, tearing her eyes away from the casino footage. “Anyway, Grissom told me you might have something for me.”

“We didn't find anything that could be considered a connection between those two,” Nick says. “Traces of strawberry lube in the bathroom, and a few fingerprints that might, or may not, belong to either of them,” he says on one breath, before continuing, ”I asked Greg to take care of the prints, maybe we have them in database,” he finishes and sighs. Damn, he thinks. It's just another wall. “Other than that, nothing.”

Sara looks at him sympathetically, “I've got some people claiming they've seen our John Doe strolling around with a silver suitcase and a take-out coffee, going to check it out with Brass, you can tag along and be pretty,” she smirks, patting him lightly with the file, still in her hand.

“Stop flirting with me, and Catherine found an indentation under the guy's bed, in a shape of a suitcase. This may be out connection.”

“I'll keep you updated, but the proposition is open. This new hair makes you look younger.”

“No, thank you. I already have plans with Archie.”

“Dim lights, comfy chairs, movies,” Archie adds with a laugh. “But we might have one spot more, just for you.”

Sara snorts, rolling her eyes at them, “I will pass,” she sighs, throwing one last look at the smug-faced John Doe II on the screen. “Have fun boys.”

  
+

“The funny thing with dead bodies is,” says Al, sitting heavily in a plastic chair with wheels, to make it easier moving around. ”That the bruises aren't always visible, especially when the body is dead less than twenty-four hours.”

“And I'm guessing it has to do with your page?” Says Grissom with a slight tilt to his head, his attention divided between Al and the partially written prelim report on Al's desk. He would like to get his hands on it now, without unnecessary babble, but getting a cane to the knee is not exactly on his priority list.

“Hit the UV light and see for yourself,” answers Al as he wheels to the slimmer body, putting on his orange glasses, motioning for the other to do the same. Griss does and when he looks back at the body he sees two sets of bruises, irregular in their regularity. _Those are,_ he thinks surprised. _Unmistakeably, bruises made by two palms - - holding, no! Cradling the dead man's lower body as if in cares._

“Sex bruises?” He asks, already knowing the answer. He doesn't stop to wonder if it was consensual. Al would have told him if it wasn't and the markings on the body would be different. This, he thinks. This was simply a bit more intense from the usual. _And what is usual?_ A voice in his head asks. _Less passionate, less brutal, less homosexual? Or maybe simply, not involving you? What kind of bruises would you leave, Griss?_

“Yes, and before you ask,” Al smirks and Grissom has the unpleasant suspicion that, at the moment, the doctor doesn't need a mind reading skill to see his thoughts. “I compared them with the other John Doe's palms. It's a match. It seems those two were in a sexual relationship.”

“We can't make that assumption as of yet, for now you've only proved that they had a sexual encounter once,” Grissom counters vehemently and immediately regrets doing so. Letting his confused emotions get better of him is a foolish thing, a rookie mistake. He knows and sees it in Al's face as well, but before either of them can comment on it, Greg comes through the door and the moment – _if there was any, perhaps it's all his imagination,_ he hopes – is broken.

  
+

“Sure, I've seen the guy,” says one of the waitress at John's Coffee joint, just a few streets away from the motel. “Came a bit before noon, all dolled up in his expensive suit and with his silver suitcase. He looked very important like a movie star or something,” she shrugs, wiping one of the freshly washed cappuccino cups.

“Did he have company, say anything?” Pushes Brass, while Sara glances around, half listening to the conversation. The place looks surprisingly nice, tidy, with blue-green walls and soft music – something British - playing in the background. _A place you'd want to take your date to when you needed atmosphere and had limited budget,_ she notes and looks around at the few teenage couples occupying the tables.

“He was all alone, I treated him with a few smiles. I mean, a guy like that, you don't see this type of men everyday, this is Vegas so it's not like I have much choice in this matter,” the girl starts to babble, but stops at Brass' subtle look of amusement. “I don't think he even noticed me, glued to this cell phone of his,” she sighs and that makes Sara look at her more closely. The girl's name-tag says Janice and she's rather easy on the eye, nice curves, pretty face and, of course, make up, that makes her look older than she probably is.

“If you'd take a guess -” Sara hums, leaning over the counter to look at the girl with a, what she hopes is, encouraging smile. “Who was he talking with? A friend, a lover?”

“I wasn't that desperate to hang around,” Janice huffs, pushing a stray lock of red hair behind her ear. “All I know is that he wasn't happy,” she shrugs, and taps her forehead. Her nails painted yellow. “He was frowning. I don't think it was a lover, well ex perhaps.”

“Do you have any surveillance cameras around this place?” Brass says, putting his small notebook back into his pocket and looks at her expectantly.

“There is a prop near the entry,” Janice whispers and leans closer, so the other customers wouldn't heard. “To scare the potential robbers away, I guess,” she says and Sara exchanges looks with Brass.

“Thank you for your help, Janice.”

+

 _It's a damn fine suit,_ thinks Warrick, laying the victims' clothes on the backlit tables in one of the empty lab rooms. One doesn't need to know fashion to know a nice piece of clothing when he sees one.

“It's a damn shame no one is going to wear you any more,” he murmurs as he bends over the elegant, charcoal jacket, looking for any stray hairs or hints as to where its owner has been before straying to the land of dead. At first the jacket seems perfect, as if it was taken straight from the tailor and never actually worn, but upon looking closely, Warrick can see things that say differently.

Like this tiny stain, that might be coffee, but he can't be sure, next to the hem of the sleeve, and then there is this slightly worn feeling that he can feel even with his latex gloves on. _I'll be damned_ , he mutters when he swabs the dots he'd taken for coffee and gets blood positive results. He double checks it, just to be sure and gets the same results.

Human blood positive. It may be the victim's maybe he cut himself, the spatter is uneven and barely visible at first sight, but he needs to make sure. He takes another swab and puts it away, making sure to take it to DNA later.

  
As an afterthought, he tests for a gunpowder as well.

+

“This whole situation is just ridiculous,” says Sara taking a vicious bite of her vegan burger as she sat down in one of the vacant chairs in the kitchen area. “We got nothing on them, absolutely nothing.”

“One minute they were awake and cheerful and the next they were both dead,” Nick nodded, drinking his third coffee that day. He still didn't feel like eating. He felt a bit restless, he'd been watching the footage from the casino with Archie for four hours and got nothing, other than a small headache on its good way to a migraine. Hell if he'd admit to it aloud, but it didn't make it any more bearable.

“We do have a tox-screen that is completely, useless,” snorts Catherine, looking at it for the n-th time before throwing it on the table, next to her partially eaten french fries, with an angry huff. “Does anyone knows if Greg still has some of those red candies laying around?” She asks, standing up. “I could use some sugar right now.”

“Try the upper shelf,” says Sara in a helpful tone, taking a swig of Nick's water, ignoring his voiced protest. “What the hell is Somnacin anyway?! If it's a drug of any kind it should be in the system. It could be a cause of death for all we know, but we can't prove it without knowing what is it. .“

“I don't know about this Somnacin stuff,” says Warrick, walking into the room and taking a chair next to Nick, like he usually does. “But I've found some gunpowder and blood on both of their clothing, but,” he says, stealing one of Catherine's fries, before continuing. “In the Casino case, the blood was not exactly on the clothing, but on the lining of the jacket, just under the left arm,” he says, rising his hand and showing the exact place. “It was an old stain, probably one of the Vic’s.”

“Blood isn't the easiest to get out,” says Nick, leaning on his elbows and looking at the photos Warrick brought with him, to illustrate what he discovered.

“But it's not impossible with a gunpowder,” finishes Catherine, stopping in her search for Greg's candies. “What part of the clothing was it on?”

“The motel guy's sleeve,” he says and reaches for Nick's water bottle, arching an eyebrow at the man in question, the man gives him a go ahead and a small smile. “My guess would be, he was the one shooting.”

“The bathroom in the Casino room was bleached clean,” Nick says, and hums, looking back at the photographies.

“I've found a hair that doesn't look like it belonged to any of them, under the motel bed,” Warrick adds, following Nick's train of thought.

“When you say it like that,” Catherine says, sitting back down. “Then perhaps our victim's aren't exactly the innocent ones here,” she sighs and Sara roles her eyes at that, taking another bite.

“Maybe it's a love triangle gone wrong,” she wiggles her eyebrows. “Two handsome men, with a past together, they meet a woman they both like,” she sighs. “It happens.”

“In crap romantic comedies, like Keeping the faith and such,” Nick snorts. “We're not in a movie Sara and you need to get out more,” he points out and Catherine laughs.

“I guess we all know what you were watching Friday night, Nicky,” she says, biting into another fry and when he looks back at her, she shrugs. “I have a teenage daughter, what's your excuse?”

“I admit to nothing,” he says grinning. “Just making a point here.”

He wants to say something else, maybe something along the lines that he was right, and there is another body for them too look for, most likely things would go differently, were easier for them if they had found that one first. But it's all maybe, maybe, maybe. _Don't make assumption_ _s, just follow the evidence,_ Grissom's words sound in his head and he waves them away. _Easy for you to say, when there is not enough evidence to follow,_ he thinks. So he says nothing and Greg proves to be a master of good timing, barging through the open doors like his tail was on fire and with a maniacal grin on his face.

“Guys, you've got to see this,” he almost screams, the excitement oozing from him. “We've got a match to the dead men's prints.”

+

“You've gotta be kidding me,” mutters Nick and Warrick hums in agreement just behind him. Greg pulled them, almost forcefully, into the nearest room with computers to show off his findings.

“Nope, I asked Mandy to double check them for me when she gave me the results and here we are,” he exclaims happily. “It's like in a spy movie!”

“How is that even possible?” Asks Catherine, not really believing her eyes. Sure they've had their fair share of oddity when it comes to identities and identity theft, but this is something else. “According to this, they had died at least ten years ago!”

“Do we have a party here, or did I miss something?” Grissom's voice carry into the room as he stands near the entrance, looking at the bunch of them with a raised eyebrow.

“Good, you're here,” Greg says happily and shows away from the table to make some space. “Check this out!”

And when Grissom looks and reads the files, they are there. Staring back at him rudely, those blinking letters.

  
 **Arthur Callahan, deceased December 14th 1998  
Joseph Daniel Eames, deceased February 7th 1996**

+

 

 **END OF CHAPTER ONE**

**Author's Note:**

> No beta. Comments, kudos and critics are love.


End file.
